Chapter 9: Morning Show Sparks
The air in the live studio tasted of ozone and canned laughter. Maria sat between Min-ho and Yose on a plush, cream-colored sectional, the material squeaking faintly under her. Beyond the blinding halo of the main lights, the darkness was alive—a sea of shadowy crew, glowing teleprompter screens, and the silent, monolithic stares of cameras. She could feel the collective gaze of a nation waiting, hungry for a scrap of something real.
“Thank you all so, so much for coming on Music Pulse today!” The host, Kim Jiwon, beamed with a practiced, flawless warmth. Her smile was a permanent fixture. “We have the global phenomenon D.A.R.K. and the incredible Ivy with us. What a treat!”
Polite applause rippled from the small audience permitted in the bleachers. Maria offered her own polished smile, the one she used for press junkets. It felt brittle here.
“Now,” Jiwon continued, leaning forward conspiratorially. “We have two segments: some fun challenges, and then a cozy chat for our questions. Which would you prefer to start with? The pain, or the interrogation?” She laughed at her own joke.
A beat of silence. Then Jae, on the far end next to Ji-hoon, piped up, his voice sweet as syrup. “I’m afraid of pain, unnie. Let’s talk first. I want to tell you all my secrets.” He fluttered his eyelashes.
“Yah, you have no secrets worth hearing,” Yose grumbled, nudging him. “Just how many sugar packets you stole from the cafe yesterday.”
“It was for energy! Hyung doesn’t understand artistic malnutrition!”
Ji-hoon, the leader, cleared his throat, the sound instantly reining in the brewing chaos. He addressed the host with his perfect, diplomatic calm. “I think starting with the challenges would be better. Get the blood flowing. Otherwise, Jae will fall asleep during the questions.”
“I will not!”
“You snored during the Vogue interview,” Min-ho said, not looking at Jae but at Maria, a private glint in his eye. The memory of his laughter in the penthouse, of the cold alley air, hung between them in the stifling studio heat.
“That was meditative breathing!”
The bickering continued, light and familiar, a well-rehearsed show of brotherly irritation that the audience ate up with soft giggles. Maria watched Min-ho within it. His contributions were smooth, charming, but she could see the subtle tension in the way he held his ankles crossed, tight. The warning from management after the vinyl bar incident had been clear, if unspoken: Nothing可疑. Nothing that can be clipped and twisted.
“Alright, alright!” Jiwon clapped her hands, herding them back on track. “Challenges it is! And for these, we’ll be splitting into teams.” A mischievous grin spread across her face. “For our first game… a dance duel! We’ll play snippets of random songs, and you have to freestyle. Our studio audience will vote on cheer volume. Team one: Ji-hoon, Yose, and Jae! Team two… BET and Ivy!”
A synthetic game-show fanfare blared. The audience whooped. Maria felt Min-ho go still beside her. Ji-hoon’s head turned slowly, not toward the host, but toward Min-ho. His expression was still smiling, but his eyes were flat, precise lasers. A silent transmission: Be careful. Be generic. Be funny, not intimate.
Min-ho’s response was to bring his hand up, covering his mouth as he coughed a laugh into his palm, his shoulders shaking. To the audience, it looked like he was amused by the pairing. Only Maria, and perhaps Ji-hoon, saw the deflection for what it was.
The duel began. It was chaos. Ji-hoon’s team moved with the cohesive, powerful synchronization of years spent in a practice room, even when the song was a trot number. They hammed it up, Jae doing aegyo-filled point dances, Yose breaking into an absurdly stiff version of the tango, Ji-hoon leading with effortless, comical grace.
When it was their turn, Min-ho and Maria fell into a different rhythm. It was conversational. A K-pop track came on, and Min-ho executed a few sharp, perfect hits of the choreography before turning to Maria with a challenge in his eyes. She mirrored him, then broke into a fluid, rolling reggaeton step, which he immediately tried to copy, stumbling playfully. The audience screamed with delight. He was being a peer, a student. It was brilliant, and it was safe.
The songs changed. A fiery Latin pop anthem blasted through the speakers, and Maria took center, her body remembering the stage, her hips carving confident, bold circles. Min-ho became her backdrop, his movements complementing hers, never overpowering. The cheers from the audience were deafening, matching the volume from the earlier team.
“We have a tie!” Jiwon announced, her voice pitched high with genuine excitement. “One more round! This song decides it!”
The opening notes were slow, a syrupy Korean ballad. The other team huddled, planning some comedic melodrama. Maria looked at Min-ho. The safe move would be to do something silly. To trip, to make a heart with his arms, to keep it firmly in the realm of broadcast-friendly fun.
She saw the calculation in his eyes, the weight of Ji-hoon’s warning. Then she leaned in, close enough for her words to be lost to everyone but him, her voice a low thread under the ballad’s strings. “Forget them. Dance what I taught you.”
A flicker. A crack in the careful facade. His professional smile softened at the edges, turning into something real and slightly reckless. “The Cuarteto?”
“The Cuarteto.”
He nodded, just once. He turned to the confused host. “Could we have a different song, please? Something with a faster beat?”
Jiwon, surprised, waved frantically at the sound booth. The ballad cut off abruptly. A moment of dead air, then the pounding, infectious, four-beat rhythm of Cuarteto Cordobés erupted, a joyous, brassy explosion of sound utterly foreign to the studio.
Min-ho’s posture changed. The sleek, controlled idol vanished. He found Maria’s hand, his grip firm and sure. He placed his other hand on the small of her back, not the tentative touch of a TV guest, but the firm guide of a partner.
And they flew.
It was all whirl and pulse. They became a single, spinning unit. Maria led, her steps assertive and grounded, her skirt flaring. Min-ho followed, his learning seamless, his body absorbing the rhythm she transmitted through their joined hands. He wasn’t perfect—there was a slight hesitation in a turn, a syncopation that was more Seoul than Córdoba—but it was alive. It was real.
“Faster!” Maria laughed, breathless, her eyes locked on his.
The music seemed to swell in response. They broke apart, arms swinging, feet stomping a rapid, intricate tattoo on the studio floor. They came back together, chests almost touching, only to be flung apart again by the centrifugal force of their own movement. Min-ho’s face was pure, unfiltered exhilaration, his guard incinerated by the sheer physical joy of it. He spun her, once, twice, her red and pink hair a vivid streak against the lights. The world narrowed to the music, the heat of his hand, the solid floor, and the reckless, grinning challenge in her eyes.
They moved their arms more, gestures becoming larger, more expressive, painting the air with their momentum. The other members stared, Ji-hoon’s warning look replaced by open-mouthed shock, then by a slow, reluctant smile. Yose was grinning, nodding to the beat. Jae was clapping along, shouting something lost in the roar.
The studio audience was on its feet, not just cheering but screaming, swept up in the unexpected, visceral thunder of it. It wasn't a polished performance. It was a shared secret made spectacularly public. As the final, crashing chords of the song hammered through the room, Min-ho dipped Maria low, her back arching over his arm, both of them panting, hearts hammering against each other’s, the studio lights blazing down like a judgement.
The applause was a physical wave, hot and deafening, washing over them as Min-ho pulled her upright. Her hand was slick in his, their fingers welded together by sweat. The studio lights weren’t lights anymore; they were a chemical burn. Maria’s grin was genuine, wide and gasping, but her eyes were scanning his, reading the dawning horror in his own. The exhilaration was evaporating, leaving behind the stark, cold reality of what they’d just done.
Ji-hoon’s clapping was slow, deliberate, each clap a period at the end of a sentence he hadn’t spoken. His smile was technically perfect, a monument to diplomacy, but it didn’t touch his eyes. Yose just shook his head, a faint, approving smirk on his lips as if to say, Well, you’ve done it now. Jae was still cheering, obliviously caught in the thrill.
“Incredible! Absolutely incredible!” Jiwon’s voice cut through the noise, her professional enthusiasm dialed up to a frenetic pitch. She fanned herself dramatically. “The chemistry! You two move like you’ve been dancing together for years!”
Min-ho’s laugh was a short, sharp burst of air. He released Maria’s hand like it was live wire. “Ivy is a forceful teacher,” he said, his voice finding its public cadence again, smooth and slightly distant. He ran a hand through his damp hair, a gesture that read as playful, not distressed. “She threatened to leave me in Buenos Aires if I didn’t learn the steps.”
“He’s a fast learner,” Maria added, her own voice a little breathless. She subtly wiped her palm on her skirt. “For a K-pop idol. You people are usually too… choreographed.” She threw a playful glance at the other members, who booed her good-naturedly, a welcome distraction.
“Alright, alright, let’s cool down!” Jiwon gestured them back to the couch. “Let’s move to our cozy chat. Everyone get some water.”
The transition was a blur of moving bodies and adjusted microphones. Maria settled back onto the squeaky cushions, the adrenaline receding and leaving a hollow, trembling feeling in its wake. Min-ho sat a careful, professional few inches further away than before. Ji-hoon smoothly occupied the space between Maria and Yose, his presence a silent, solid barrier.
“So,” Jiwon began, leaning forward with a clipboard that was purely for show. “We have questions from fans all over the world. Let’s get personal!” The audience ooed.
The first few were softballs. Ji-hoon was asked about the pressure of leadership. Yose about his lyric-writing process with Min-ho. Jae about his ‘baby face’ image. They answered with well-worn anecdotes, comfortable and rehearsed. The rhythm was lulling, a gentle back-and-forth that softened the edges of the room.
Maria was asked about collaborating with D.A.R.K. She spoke about the music, the fusion of styles, her words genuine but careful. She praised Ji-hoon’s production, Yose’s raw lyrical flow, Jae’s surprising musicality. She called Min-ho a ‘perfectionist in the best way.’
“Now, for our beloved BET,” Jiwon said, her tone shifting into something lighter, more teasing. “The fans have noticed you’ve been quite the tour guide lately! Ivy’s Instagram is full of Seoul adventures. Namsan Tower, a vinyl bar in Hongdae… very cultural.”
Min-ho’s smile was easy, relaxed. He crossed his legs, ankle over knee. “What can I say? She’s a terrible tourist. Gets lost immediately. Someone has to prevent an international incident.” He glanced at Maria, a flicker of the private joke about the Lemon King passing between them. “I’m just doing my part for diplomatic relations.”
The studio laughed. It was going well. Too well.
Jiwon’s smile tightened, just at the corners. It was the smile of a hunter whose trap is about to spring. “How… thoughtful. Speaking of those adventures…” She turned to the large screen to her side. “We have a fan-submitted photo that’s caused quite a stir online. Let’s take a look.”
The screen flickered to life.
It was a grainy, zoomed-in shot, taken from across a street at night. The neon signage of Bar Vinyl was a blurred smear of color. In the foreground, under a flickering streetlamp, were two figures. Maria, her vibrant hair hidden under the black beanie, was caught mid-laugh, looking up at Min-ho. And she was wearing the vintage black bomber jacket, the one that smelled like cedar and him, its acid-green liner a shocking slash in the dark.
The air in the studio didn’t just get cold; it crystallized.
Min-ho froze. Every muscle in his body locked. The easy smile on his face solidified into a rigid mask, his eyes glued to the massive, damning image of his own private life. The careful distance he’d placed between them on the couch now felt like a canyon. Ji-hoon stopped breathing beside her.
A beat of dead, airless silence stretched across the live broadcast.
Then Maria laughed.
It was a bright, unfettered sound, tinged with just the right amount of self-deprecating embarrassment. She slapped her own knee. “Oh, that photo! That’s my fault, honestly.”
Every head swiveled to her. Min-ho’s gaze slowly tore from the screen, landing on her with a look of pure, unvarnished shock.
“I have a bad habit,” she confessed to Jiwon, shaking her head as if chiding herself. “I dress to look good, but I get cold so quickly. I’m a reptile. I end up stealing my friends’ jackets. Constantly.” She gestured broadly, including the other D.A.R.K. members. “In several of my streams and videos, you can see me dressed stylishly one moment, and the next you see me wearing a coat that isn’t mine, and my poor friends shivering without a coat.”
Jiwon let out a practiced, tinkling laugh. “It’s a cute habit! But you know, in Korea, there’s a bit of a… saying. That boyfriends usually lend their jackets to their girlfriends. It’s a romantic gesture.”
Maria nodded, her expression turning warmly appreciative. She reached out and put a hand on Min-ho’s rigid shoulder. He flinched, almost imperceptibly. “BET is just a gentleman. He noticed I was cold and lent it to me without a second thought.” She squeezed his shoulder, a signal to breathe. “Honestly, I didn’t think anyone would read anything more into it. We were just two colleagues, walking and talking about music.”
She looked directly at Min-ho then, her gaze softening with a publicly acceptable shade of apology. “From now on, I’ll be more careful. I don’t want fans to think things that aren’t true. I don’t want to cause trouble for you.”
The unspoken words hung in the space between their locked eyes: I’m sorry. This is how we survive.
Ji-hoon moved, breaking the spell. He leaned forward, blocking the camera’s view of their connected gaze. “Yeah, she stole my favorite sweater last week,” he sighed, his voice dripping with comic exasperation. “It still smells like her perfume. Ruined.” He shook his head at Maria. “You’re a jacket menace. An international fashion terrorist.”
The tension shattered into relieved laughter from the audience. Jiwon, seeing the narrative neatly wrapped and defused, seamlessly steered the conversation toward the upcoming album, the world tour, anything else.
For the remaining ten minutes, Min-ho functioned. He laughed at jokes. He gave concise answers. He was BET, the charismatic idol. But his movements were precise, economical. His smiles never reached the tension held in the line of his jaw. When the host finally wrapped the interview and the closing music swelled, he stood with the others, bowing deeply to the audience and cameras.
Backstage was a jarring shift into shadow and controlled chaos. The moment the green light on the main camera died, Ji-hoon’s affable mask dropped. He didn’t look at Min-ho. He looked at their manager, Mr. Park, who was already striding toward them, his face a storm cloud.
“My office. Now,” Mr. Park said, the words clipped and cold, before turning on his heel.
Ji-hoon followed without a word. Yose clapped a heavy hand on Min-ho’s shoulder, a gesture of both solidarity and pressure, and steered him after the manager. Jae lingered, his usual playfulness gone, his young face wrinkled with concern. “Hyung…” he started.
“It’s fine, Jae,” Min-ho said, his voice hollow. “Go with the others.”
He didn’t look back at Maria.
She stood alone in the buzzing corridor, surrounded by rushing crew who no longer saw her. The vibrant heat from the dance was a distant memory, replaced by the deep, penetrating chill of the studio’s AC. She wrapped her arms around herself, her fingers brushing over the sleeves of her own top. It offered no warmth.
From the pocket of her skirt, her phone vibrated. Once. A single, encrypted message lit up the screen.
Unknown Number: Car at Door 3. Black sedan. 5 minutes.
She stared at the message, then down the stark, empty hallway where Min-ho had disappeared. The applause was still ringing in her ears, but it was fading, replaced by the sound of a heavy door clicking shut.
The heavy door clicked shut with a sound like a bone breaking. Maria stood frozen in the fluorescent buzz of the backstage corridor, the applause still a phantom roar in her skull. Crew members brushed past her, their voices tinny and distant, already dismantling the world that had just dissected her.
Her phone burned in her hand. Door 3. Five minutes.
She moved, her legs carrying her on autopilot past cables and flight cases. The scent of the stage—hot lights and synthetic fog—clung to her clothes, but underneath it was the sterile sting of antiseptic cleaner. It made her throat tight.
Door 3 was an emergency exit, propped open with a ratty wedge of firewood. Outside, the night air was a concrete alley, humid and smelling of diesel. The black sedan idled, its windows opaque. The rear door swung open silently.
She slid inside. The door shut with a solid, expensive thunk, sealing her in chilled, silent darkness. The car pulled away before her seatbelt clicked.
“You handled that.” The voice came from the driver’s seat. It was Estela, her manager. Her eyes found Maria’s in the rearview mirror, sharp and assessing. “The jacket story was quick. It might hold.”
“Might?” Maria’s own voice sounded shredded.
“The photo is one thing. The dance was another. You didn’t look like colleagues.” Estela’s grip on the wheel was tight. “You looked like you were alone in the room. That’s the clip that’s trending. Not the photo. The dance.”
Maria leaned her head against the cool glass. Seoul streaked by in smears of neon. She saw their reflection in every window—spinning, connected, exposed. “It was just a dance.”
“Nothing is ever just anything with them.” Estela’s tone was final. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“The penthouse.” The word felt dangerous now.
“No.” Estela’s answer was immediate. “You’re at the Lotte. Your things are already there. A suite under my name.”
“You moved my things?” Maria sat up straight, a hot spike of betrayal cutting through the numbness.
“I did my job. His company is doing theirs right now. They are deciding if this collaboration is salvageable or if it needs to be terminated for ‘creative differences.’ You being seen anywhere near his building tonight would be a bullet to the head. For him. For the project.”
Maria wanted to argue, to scream. But the image of Min-ho’s face, the horror dawning as the photo filled the screen, stole her breath. The way he’d flinched from her touch. Her apology on live TV felt cheap now, a Band-Aid on a hemorrhage. “Is he okay?”
Estela’s silence was longer this time. The car slid to a stop at a red light. “His world is not built for ‘okay.’ It’s built for control. You danced him right out of it.” She didn’t say it as an accusation. It was a flat, cold fact. “The hotel. Rest. Do not call him. Do not message. We wait.”
Across the city, in a room that smelled of lemon polish and dread, Min-ho stood.
He did not sit. Sitting felt too much like surrender. Mr. Park, the head manager, sat behind a vast, empty desk. Ji-hoon stood by the window, his back to the room, a silhouette against the city’s glare. Yose leaned against the door, arms crossed, a silent sentry. The air conditioning was too high. Min-ho could feel the sweat cooling on the back of his neck, turning icy.
“Explain your thought process.” Mr. Park’s voice was calm. It was the worst kind of calm.
“There was no thought process.” Min-ho’s jaw ached. “It was a game. The host asked for a dance.”
“The host asked for a freestyle to a ballad. You requested different music. You initiated a… a folk dance from her country.” Mr. Park placed his palms flat on the desk. “You requested it. You led.”
Min-ho said nothing. The truth was a useless lump in his throat.
“You have worked for eight years to build what you have.” Mr. Park continued, each word a careful, clean incision. “The group has worked. One night, one photo, one dance, and you put a crack in the foundation of it. Do you understand? The agency’s stock dipped three percent in after-hours trading. Three percent.”
The number hung in the chilled air. It was a number that translated to pressure, to meetings Min-ho would never see, to the disgust of men in suits who saw him as a volatile, decorative asset.
“It was my fault.” Ji-hoon’s voice cut through the room. He didn’t turn from the window. “I was the leader on that set. I saw the direction it was going. I should have intervened more directly before the music even changed.”
“Don’t,” Min-ho said, the word cracking.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do right now,” Ji-hoon said, finally turning. His face was exhausted. “My job is to protect the group. All of you. Even from yourselves.”
Yose shifted by the door. “The public loved the dance. The metrics are through the roof. It’s genuine engagement. Can’t we spin that? The cultural exchange thing?”
“We are not spinning a romantic melodrama!” Mr. Park’s fist came down on the desk, a sharp crack that made them all flinch. The calm was gone. “We contain. We have the jacket story. It’s weak, but we push it. You will not be seen together unless it is a scheduled, supervised promotional event with all members present. You will not communicate on private channels. You will, in public, be professionally courteous and distant. Do you understand?”
Min-ho’s vision tunneled. Professionally courteous and distant. The words coated his tongue like ash. He saw Maria’s hand reaching for his shoulder on screen, his own body recoiling. He’d rejected her save. Live.
“And the collaboration?” His own voice sounded foreign.
“The album is finished. The tour dates are announced. We are contractually bound.” Mr. Park stood, gathering a nonexistent folder. “You will fulfill your obligations. You will perform together. And you will sell the world on the idea that you are nothing but polite, talented acquaintances. Starting with the Melon Sound interview tomorrow. All six of you. A united front.”
He walked to the door. Yose moved aside. “Min-ho. A word. Alone.”
The others left. Ji-hoon paused, meeting Min-ho’s eyes for a second. The disappointment there was a physical weight. Then the door closed.
Mr. Park didn’t sit again. He stood close, his voice dropping, no longer for an audience. “You are one of the best dancers of your generation. You have a decade left, maybe more, if you are smart. She is a brilliant, chaotic flare. She will burn bright and move on. That is her industry. Ours is different. We build monuments that last. One crack, and the whole structure is suspect.”
He stepped even closer, his next words a near whisper. “The board is asking if you are compromised. If your priorities have shifted. Your next step defines the answer. You will be perfect. Or we will begin discussions about your solo activities being… postponed. Indefinitely. To allow you to refocus.”
The threat was crystal, cold, and absolute. A hiatus. Career suffocation. The gentle, professional murder of BET.
Min-ho felt his nails bite into his palms. “I understand.”
“Good.” Mr. Park stepped back, his public mask settling back into place. “The car will take you home. Do not go anywhere else.”
The penthouse was a tomb of amber light and silence. He shrugged off his blazer, the one stylists had chosen for the show, and let it pool on the floor. The grand piano was a dark monolith. The half-finished melody for her—because it was always for her—taunted him from the sheet music.
He went to the balcony. The city’s endless pulse felt like a mockery. His phone was a dead weight. He had dozens of notifications—concerned messages from friends in the industry, frantic texts from the fan cafe managers. He ignored them all.
He scrolled to the encrypted app. One active thread. Her last message was from yesterday, a blurry photo of her mate on his piano, captioned: Your piano tastes better than mine.
His thumb hovered over the call button. He pressed it.
It rang once. Twice.
He almost hung up.
“You shouldn’t call.” Her voice was quiet, hushed. She sounded like she was in a closet.
“I know.” He leaned on the balcony rail, the metal cold against his forehead. “Are you at the hotel?”
“Yeah. It’s very… beige.” She paused. He could hear her breath, soft and irregular. “I’m sorry. For the dance. I pushed you.”
“Don’t.” The word came out choked. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. That was the only real thing that happened today.”
A long silence stretched, filled with the faint static of the connection and the weight of everything unsaid. “What did they do to you?” she finally asked, her voice small.
He told her. The cold room. The percentage. Ji-hoon’s disappointment. The threat. The words tasted like poison, but saying them to her felt like lancing a wound. “They want me to be a stranger to you.”
She didn’t respond for so long he thought the call had dropped. Then, a sharp, wet intake of breath. “So that’s it. We just… perform.”
“Yes.”
“And when the tour is over?”
He had no answer. The future was a blank, terrifying wall. “I don’t know.”
“I can’t do that.” Her whisper was fierce, frayed. “I can’t stand next to you and sing our words and have you look at me like I’m a business partner. That’s a different kind of lie. It’s worse.”
“Maria—” His voice broke.
“No.” He could hear her moving, pacing. “You asked me once what I valued most. It’s authenticity. That’s the deal. Even when it’s ugly. Even when it costs. This… this polite distance would be a performance that kills the music. It kills us.”
“What’s the alternative?” The question was a raw plea. “You leave? The project collapses? I get shelved? That’s not authentic, that’s just a different kind of ruin.”
“I don’t know!” she cried out, the sound muffled, as if she’d shoved her face into a pillow. “I don’t know the alternative. I just know I can’t breathe thinking about it.”
He closed his eyes. The neon city blurred into streaks of meaningless color. He saw the dip, her body arcing over his arm, the total trust in her eyes before the fear set in. That was the truth. Everything else was noise.
“The interview is tomorrow,” he said, his voice hollow. “Melon Sound. All of us.”
“I know. Estela told me.”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“You’ll do what you have to.” Her voice was suddenly, terribly resigned. “You always do. It’s why you’re BET.” She took a shaky breath. “I have to go.”
“Wait—”
The call died. He was left with the silence of his tomb and the echo of her surrender. He stared at the phone, at the black screen reflecting his own shattered expression. The momentum of their crash was still carrying them forward, helpless, toward the next unavoidable collision.